


we lift our hands and pray over your body

by pelvicbones



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Body Worship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 06, becho is finito, bellamy blake is a soft boy, fuck u jason, i'm giving the people what they deserve, let's pretend bellamy was too busy fucking clarke for a day before that whole "OCTAVIA" moment, madi go to cyro so mom and dad can have sex, the religious allusions are abundant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:27:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22930975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelvicbones/pseuds/pelvicbones
Summary: After all this time, Bellamy just wants to surrender himself to her, to show her how devoted he really is.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 14
Kudos: 120





	we lift our hands and pray over your body

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this damn fic months ago when i quit my job and became full-time invested in this damn show. this was the OG fic i was planning on posting as my big return to fanfic, but i literally have not been able to finish it UNTIL NOW.  
> i know it’s not really kosher for these two beans to fucks at this point, but i dON’T CARE. i lost my respect for abby seasons ago and the fact that becho has survived this long is a conundrum. on the latter note: the becho breakup in this is barely a thing, but y’all have had your fun nd i’m just tired of this relationship.
> 
> i listened to “casimir pulaski day” by sufjan stevens for like three days straight when i started this fic, so, obviously title credit and extra credit for the song managing to get me in my (non-existent) religious ~feels~. ( @ writing team, i see your obvious religious allegories and raise them to much deserved body worship.)
> 
> also, i guess i can only write bellamy blake as a soft boi, but *paris hilton voice* “that’s hot.”
> 
> if you've read my other shit and see similar things it's bc i legit never thought i'd finish this

Any other day, Bellamy might have been overwhelmed by the silence that overtakes the group walking to Gabriel’s campsite, but, today, he’s lulled into calm by the buzz of their collective anxiety. He catches sight of Octavia’s spine pulled taut, the symbols on her back gleaming darkly, and wonders if she’ll ever not be ready for battle.

In stark contrast, his hand is stationed on Clarke’s lower back to keep her upright, to guide her away from the remains of chaos. Her upper body is slack, curved, and her sight trained on the ground. Bellamy knows he should be worrying about the next disaster they’re embarking on in the morning, but the treacherous organ in him that she’s enamored by keeps him thinking of her current state. Logically, Bellamy knows that Clarke is going to need time to process, to grieve, but with every stolen glance at her pale, unblinking face, he feels an irrational desire to care for her. He _wants_ so much when it comes to Clarke. Even if all he wants right now is to tuck her into bed, to whisper myths into her ear to coax her to sleep, it’s all bred of his selfishness, his greed. Monty’s final wishes are tattooed in his brain, but, when they reach the campsite, Bellamy twists them for his benefit. He announces to the group that he’s bringing Clarke into a tent before he’ll return to make arrangements for the morning.

As he leads Clarke inside, he catches Echo’s eye. Her eyes narrow at the sight of them, of Bellamy’s hand still unwavering on Clarke’s back. She curtly nods in a way that exudes defeat, relief, and acceptance before abruptly turning away. It takes him longer to process than it takes to end. A three-year relationship gone in a second.

Clarke stiffens when he opens the flap of the tent for her, but, as she enters, she briefly intertwines their fingers in an invitation to come inside. 

He places her on a cot Gabriel has provided, slinks down to untie her boots. He can’t meet her eyes. Instead, he looks at her hands and sees there’s blood underneath her fingernails – dry now, the color of blackberry juice.

Over a century ago, when their main concern was protecting one hundred (and one) criminals, they had the younger delinquents gather blackberries for jam. Bellamy remembers, once, seeing her stop in her endless patrol to take a berry from one of the children’s spread palms. Remembers rolling his eyes before really _seeing_ her – her eyes closing momentarily in bliss, mouth releasing a sigh when the taste spread across her tongue to the back of her throat. Remembers averting his gaze abruptly to his hunting group, feeling shame build deep in his belly like he had witnessed a sacred ritual he was not pure enough to see.

He stays kneeling in front of her, taking her hands in his. Without intention, his thumb slowly drags across her veins and, when he looks up, he sees the replication of that moment at the dropship. Clarke’ eyelids flutter close, the length of her lashes made visible against her pale cheek before they sharply open. Octavia paints on her battle mask, but Clarke’s is muscle memory - it snaps on with the stiffening of her mouth. However, before her Roman mask fully slips on, a quiver at the corner betrays her. He raises her hands to his forehead, breathing slowly, taking time to close his eyes. His muscles ache from the position he’s in, but he continues to kneel before her. 

After all this time, he just wants to surrender. 

“Bell,” Clarke whispers. “ _Bellamy_.”

In the black haze behind his eyes, he sees children’s mouths pucker at the taste of tart blackberries, sees dark clouds emerge from underneath a rocket, sees the protruding arteries in Echo’s throat as he licks her sweat. Sees Lexa’s face. Sees his little sister ( _my responsibility)_ look at him before he closes the door to her prison underneath the floor. Sees the face of Blodreina as she looks down upon him from her throne. Sees two pairs of hands pull a lever. Sees Clarke’s face twist in relief, in rage, in rapture, in grief, in betrayal.

He feels Clarke’s body lower toward his in the hot air of the tent, feels her lips graze against their hands. He doesn’t allow his eyes to open until he feels her inner thighs slowly spread to straddle the width of his lap. She hovers slightly as to not exert her weight on him, but leans her head to bow against his shoulder. He doesn’t turn to look at her until he lowers their hands. Her eyes are half-lidded, heavy from salt, mouth parted and pressed heavily into the collar of his shirt.

She breathes slowly for some time, hot air onto his throat, before she twists her neck to meet his eyes, “Will we ever stop losing?”

He hears the unspoken word ( _people_ ) shakes his head once, twice. Her mouth quivers, but her eyes are clear, intent. He can see the grief, but he also sees the thousand question marks in her irises – a promise, a plea. Before his head catches up with his heart, he finally, _finally_ , lowers his face closer to hers. The time it takes for them to meet each other in the middle feels like another six years, another century and a quarter, and, even then, they are still severed.

When he looks down at her, she’s eating that blackberry again, eyes more dark than light. His voice can’t help break when he says her name, “Clarke.” Then, again, with reverence, “ _Clarke_.”

She lowers herself onto his lap for stability, meeting his gaze fully. She intertwines their hands and rests them between their bodies. When she leans into his mouth, her eyes are open. This kiss is only slightly firmer than the last – still feathery, ethereal. When they part, she sighs his name in his mouth, adding to the silence, “Could you stay?”

He hears the question within the question ( _can_ you stay _?_ ). He forgoes responding, worrying his voice will expose his nervousness – euphoria, whatever you want to call it – and, instead, brings his hands to her cheeks, lets his pinkies roam into her hair, and brings her mouth to his. This time, the kiss is what he’s always hoped it would be. Her tongue slips between his lips and he feels himself vanish into the feeling that this moment was destined, a holy act prophesied to happen even after all of the ends of the world. Her own hands make their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tripping in the knots of his dark, messy hair, drawing him nearer. When they become two separate entities again, he curves down to leave open-mouthed kisses on the pillar of her neck, making his way to the space between her collarbones. As he makes his way across her clavicle, she rests her chin on his forehead, curling her fingers tighter in his hair, puffing out breathless noises.

He pulls on her shirt to gain access to her shoulder and she detangles her hands to pull her shirt over her head. When she continues to take off her bra, his eyes are wide – she wonders if it’s in hopes to take her all in. She doesn’t smile, just keeps their gaze locked as she stretches over him to remove his shirt. Even though he’s thought of this moment an embarrassing amount of times, the doubt of _do you really want this do you want me_ is stuck in his throat. He always thought he’d have to ask, but her eyes soften at his expression, like she can’t believe that he would be surprised, and, again, she closes the gap to kiss him.

Her breasts are crushed against his body, but he lifts his hands to graze the small, silvery stretch marks on the sides. Her mouth trembles against his when his fingers brush the edges of her nipples and he breaks the kiss to lean her back, to swirl his tongue around her left nipple, thumbs pressing into her hip bones. The pressure is on the boundary of leaving a bruise and her breath stutters, hips jerking into his touch before she arches further back with a sigh. Her hands stray across his back, fingers pointedly forming constellations of freckles she can see through her sleepy gaze. When his teeth capture her nipple, her weight shifts as she sharply inhales and their bones slat against each other. He looks up at her and her pupils are blown, mouth wet and swollen from biting, and she grinds down in lieu of speaking.

Taking off her pants is clumsy at first. His traitorous hands shake and, now that she finally knows what it’s like for their skin to touch, to feel _this_ , she doesn’t want to break contact for long. But her thighs are vibrating and he desperately, desperately wants to taste her, so he eases her back onto the cot and pulls her pants down her legs. He notices, strangely, that her feet are a little dirty. At this point, he’s so far gone, so accustomed to worshipping her from afar, that he feels a strange urge to wash them so she can feel clean, revered, loved.

Instead, he eases his hands on her still shaking thighs with purpose. He looks to see her confirmation, catches her lowered eyes and barely visible bottom lip, and continues, kissing up her thighs. When he reaches her underwear, he feels dizzy from her scent – like Earth: warm, watery, fertile ground. He sinks his teeth into the space between her thigh and pelvic bone, just to feel grounded, secure. With her unsteady assistance, he pulls down her underwear with his teeth, catching her flesh at points when her hips roll unintentionally. Fueled by the anticipation, her fingers find purchase in his hair again, pulling at the roots. His tongue slowly draws up her slit and all he can think is that she tastes like the juice of unripe apples.

She whimpers at the slow pace he sets, thumb to her clit and tongue sinking into her. When he looks up, he sees her biting on her fist and smiles as he continues to experiment between her thighs, trying to see what it takes for her to slowly unravel underneath his touch. As she trembles, he decides he only wants to drink her, wants his mouth to always taste like her, wants to replace whole chapters in his memory with the feeling of her milky thighs wrapped around his face. He wants to give her the redemption she deserves by giving himself over to her. 

She’s still shaking, still trying to hold in her moans, and he feels his pants strain at how her skin blooms red by staying silent. He did that, he thinks. Her fingers are inching down, trying to increase the speed he’s set on her clit, but he moves his mouth over instead, humming a prayer as he sucks. Her thighs involuntarily clench, confining him for a moment of total sensory deprivation – the world is nothing, it’s just her. He starts to quicken his speed in a haze of hunger, flicking his tongue against her clit, and when she hits her climax, he drinks her.

She weakly tugs on his hair as she recovers and he wobbles up, knees buckling. He adjusts their position so she’s laying on her back, while he hovers over her, dropping breathy kisses to her jaw.

“Bellamy,” she babbles as he sucks a spot on her neck. “You’re so good. Too good to me.”

He smiles into her neck, places his forearm next to her head to get a good look at her. He’s trying hard not to fumble around like a teenage virgin, but the sight of her squirming underneath him makes his mouth dry – blonde hair (the color of moonlight from the sun) framing her face like a halo, eyes half-lidded and, somehow, glinting mischievously.

He tenses when her hands reach out to his belt buckle. “Oh,” he says, hands shaking again, “We don’t – you don’t have to –.”

She looks at him fondly, voice slurred, yet, somehow, always frank, “I want to.” She arches her neck, sloping her mouth toward his in an invitation, so he meets her halfway. She licks the seam of his mouth, “I’ve wanted you in every way for over a century.”

He sputters, despite himself, and she chuckles as she continues to unbuckle his belt. The sound of it giving way reverberates in the air. “ _Bell_ ,” she coos, unzipping his pants slowly. “Let me see you.”

He pushes himself off the bed to remove his pants and underwear, trembling as she sits up, her hair spilling to the side in her inspection. He feels an uneasiness he hasn’t felt in years under her gaze, only for it to ebb when she smiles and says, “Beautiful. Come closer.”

She reaches out to him, grabbing his hips and holding him in place. His throat bobs when she sinks between the confined space of his body and the cot, the sight of her trembling knees comforting him. She skitters her hand across the plume of his pubic hair as she descends to his dick. She lays a small palm on his thigh, thumb lightly grazing a vein pulsing on his length. Her fingers dance on his skin, traveling to the base of his penis, She ducks her mouth slowly, licking the tip of him, and he almost collapses at the feeling, the sight of it. 

“Clarke,” he chokes, “Stop. I don’t think –.”

Her roaming hand stills as she looks up nervously, “Do... do you not want this?”

One of Bellamy’s hands drops to trace her jaw, a finger cocking under her chin gesturing her to rise. He smiles when she stretches fully, palm spreading the expanse of her throat, captures her mouth with authority, smiles harder when she melts into it, “Of course, but I want _you_.”

She pulls him down on the cot abruptly, their limbs landing messily. The cot threatens to buckle under the sudden weight and he’d laugh if she wasn’t looking at him with such blind want, her thighs latching onto the side of his.

“Okay,” she murmurs, gazing up at him. When he takes too much time looking, she adds, “ _Please_.”

Clarke reaches between their bodies to take him into her grasp, guiding him to her core, and he snaps into the moment, connecting their mouths harshly. The kiss is all teeth and spit until he fills her to the brim in one motion. Her knees thrash slightly at the over-stimulation, but she sighs in relief when his head grazes her cervix.

“Okay?” he asks, fingers bearing down on her skin so he won’t push further.

“Better,” she bites out. Smiles, even. “Always better with you.”

He moans when she wiggles her hips, her walls fluttering around him, “I don’t think I’m going to be my best right now.”

She laughs, moans when he thrusts shallowly, “Always best, Bell.”

His fingers reach between them to graze her clit and she preens against the touch, already sensitive from her first orgasm and the feeling of his weight against her. Embarrassingly, it takes only a few more strokes before he’s coming inside her, the cot buckling beneath them from his erratic movements. Despite the blur of his climax, he keeps his fingers on her clit until she’s twitching around his softening dick with her own.

When he pulls out, she winces against him slightly, but, when he leans his forehead against hers, he feels her soft smile in the air between their mouths.

“Do you have to go?” she asks, tentatively. He pulls back to look at her, notices her mask start to build from her temples, “I know you have to strategize for tomorrow.”

He rolls over, buries his face in her neck, nuzzling her pulse point with his nose until she laughs, “No. I’m here. I’m right here.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’M CRYING BC IT’S DONE IT’S REALLY DONE AFTER ALL THESE MONTHS.  
> i know the ending sucks but bellamy would drink clarke’s blood and would 100% come too fast during their first sex – fight me if you disagree.  
> full disclosure y’all: it’s been a hOT minute since i’ve had sex and even longer having ~soft sex~ so go off in the comments if this was an epic failure.  
> HOWEVER, i hope you all enjoyed!!


End file.
